


Merciful little lies and valiantly broken vows

by Queen_Rhaenas_Favourite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU Canon Divergence, Dragon dreams, Wolf Dreams, direwolves, starks - Freeform, targlings, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Rhaenas_Favourite/pseuds/Queen_Rhaenas_Favourite
Summary: What if Jon has taken Stannis’ offer before he had a chance to be named Lord commander? What if he married Val and became the Lord of Winterfell?OrAs his dreams of the crypt become more frequent, Jon Snow is forced to face his fear and his deceased family.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Val
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Merciful little lies and valiantly broken vows

It felt wrong to be bringing Val into the crypts, but she was the only person in Winterfell that Jon trusted enough to confide in about his dreams. _This is a Stark place,_ he thought as they descended the steps. He was constantly having to remind himself _, I am a Stark now for true, in name as well as blood, and so is Val through me._

Not quite a year had passed since the battle against the Bolton’s. Jon hadn’t expected the Northern Lords to take so well to him, given his birth and the breaking of his nights watch vows. But most of the houses that mattered had joined he and Stannis’ cause. All those who had been sceptical of Jon had joined later anyway, when Rickon returned. Though that too had caused its share of issues.

Jon was a Stark now, but in his heart he was still a Snow, and he refused to take anything from a trueborn son of Eddard Stark. So when Rickon returned, alive and well, if slightly feral, he and Stannis and the other Northern Lords came to an agreement; Jon would remain as Rickon’s regent until he came of age. Once Rickon was old enough, Jon would stand down and do whatever the new Lord of Winterfell required of him.

All were in agreement, the only worry was how Val would react. Under Stannis’ original plan she would have been the Lady of Winterfell, and her son would have been the Would have been the Warden of the North one day. But Jon knew she wouldn’t mind, she was a wildling after all. She didn’t care for any southern title, only that she and her family were safe, and warm. And if nothing else, Jon liked to think he’d given her that at least.

“Tell me the dream again,” she said as they reached the end of the stairs.

“I was walking through here,” Jon gestured to the path between the rows of Kings on either side of them. “I could hear voices, Robb’s voice, and my fathers. They sounded.. happy, I suppose. They were at peace. But I could not see them. When I called out to them, they told me I could not join them, my father said this was not my place.” He had dreamt of it so many times, it felt more than a little strange to be in the crypts whilst waking now, as he’d avoided them for so long after arriving at Winterfell.

“They are in the land of the dead now,” Val whispered, slipping her arm through his. “That is no place for the living.”

Jon hummed in agreement, but he knew that was not what his dream had meant. He did not belong _here,_ in the crypts, the _Stark crypts. I am a Stark,_ he told himself, but it did no good.

They came to a stop at the end of the lines of statues. There was a candle burning at his fathers feet. From _Rickon, most like._ Val looked around at the statues and began to ask Jon about them.

“Who’s this?” She pointed at the statue of Jon’s grandfather.

“Lord Rickard, my,” Jon cleared his throat, “my fathers father.”

“How’d he die?”

Jon looked rough see if she was being serious, then he remembered she’d been raised North of the Wall, she’d never have heard the stories before. “He was executed by the mad king, Aerys Targaryen. As was his son, Brandon.” Jon gestured to the statue beside Lord Rickard’s.

“Executed for what?”

“Brandon threatened the Kings son, so Aerys imprisoned him and called Lord Rickard to Kingslayer. When he arrived he accused them both of treason. It wasn’t true of course.”

“Then why’d he accuse them of it?”

“He wasn’t called the Mad King for nothing,” Jon explained. “And Brandon _had_ threatened to kill the Kings heir, Prince Rhaegar.”

“Seems to me if a king is mad, you shouldn’t be threatening his family on the first place,” Val shrugged and moved along the line of statues. “Who’s this? I didn’t think they buried the ladies down here, only the Lords. I’ve seen no other women.”

“That’s Lyanna Stark, she was my aunt.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was kidnapped and raped by Prince Rhaegar,” Jon’s voice felt tight. His father had rarely spoken about his sister, so all Jon really knew about her was how she died. “That’s why Brandon went to Kingslanding and threatened Rhaegar. He was trying to get her back.”

“Did he?”

“Clearly not, he was executed alongside his father and by the time _my_ father found Lyanna she was dead or dying already.”

“Stealing the Lord of Winterfell’s daughter though…” Val gave a small, dry laugh, Jon could tell where she was taking this already. “He must have been taking Bael’s advice when he came up with that idea. Next you’ll tell me he left her father a Winter rose in her stead.”

“Not exactly,” the next thought that game to Jon was so ironic he couldn’t help but laugh. “They say that it all started at Harrenhal though, when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna the queen of love and beauty instead of his wife. You know what her crown was made from?”

“Truly?” Val gave a bemused smile.

“Aye, blue winter roses.”

They stood silently for a moment, staring at the faces of the dead.

“That Prince…” Val began.

“…Rhaegar?” Jon offered.

“Aye, that one,” Val nodded, “was he one of your dragon Kings?”

“Well he wasn’t a King, and the last dragon died over a century ago,” Val gave him an irritated look. “But yes, the Targaryen _were_ Dragonlords once.”

She gave a short laugh. “In that case I can’t say I blame the girl.”

“What girl? Lyanna?”

“Aye.”

“Why would you blame Lyanna?”

“I don’t, I just said,” Val have him a confused look.

“But that statement implies that someone else _would_ blame her. Why?”

“No one would blame her, Jon,” Val huffed. “I meant nothing ill by it, I was only meant that most women I know would be glad if a man like _that_ had stolen her.”

“There’s quite a difference between how Freefolk view stealing woman and how highborns and southerners view stealing women,” Jon rolled his eyes. “And what do you mean _“a man like_ that””?

“Dragons are mighty creatures, far greater than wolves,” she gave him a mocking smile. “Japes aside, any man who can steal a woman from under the nose of the Lord of Winterfell is cleverer than most. And I hear princes are s’posed to be pretty, almost as pretty as you,” she grinned and patted his cheek rather patronisingly. “So, what I mean is, a man like that would be a fine husband and any smart woman should see that. He’d give her strong sons and build strong walls to keep them safe, and warm.”

Sometimes, Val could act so polite and courteous that Jon would entirely forget that she was just as much a wildling as Ygritte had been. “That’s all well and good when your North if the Wall, but here when a man steals a woman it’s seen as a crime. Especially when both parties are wed already, as Rhaegar was, or betrothed, as Lyanna was,” Val had nothing to say to that, so Jon continued. “I think your judgment of Rhaegar is rather off as well. He and his Dornish wife had two children, but Elia Martell and both her children were slain when the rebels attacked Kingslanding. By your standards, I think a _good_ husband would have been there to defend his wife and children.”

“Aye,” Val nodded, and quietly added, “even beyond the Wall, a man takes only one wife at a time. He should have defended his wife, and his children.”

They stayed a while longer, until Jon decided he would find no answered to his dream here. But even when he was above ground once more, the conversation he’d had with Val in the crypts played though his mind, over and over.

Jon struggled to sleep that night. In fact, he could not sleep at all. After several hours of staring at the canopy and trying to make some sense of his dream, he decided to return to the place that was causing his sleeplessness.

He dressed quickly and quietly, trying not to wake Val. He wore a thick cloak, for the snows were falling daily now and it would not do any good to freeze to death. The guards gave some words of protest when he insisted on going out alone, but he silenced them with a word and soothed their minds somewhat by showing them that he wore Longclaw at his hip.

He should have known that going to crypts alone at night would be entirely different to going down during the day with his wife or his siblings around him. Every time his torch flickered he feared it was about to die out and leave him in blackness, and the shadows on the walls seemed to chase him through the halls of the dead kings. Finally he reached the last statue. It was the newest one there, the one he himself had ordered to be made. _Robb_. The first King in the North since the King who Knelt.

It had been so much harder than Jon anticipated to have his half brothers remains returned to Winterfell along with those of Greywind. Once they were finally home, the reality had dawned on both Jon and Rickon that Robb was truly gone. The boy-lord of Winterfell had wept when the silent sisters arrived with his brothers bones, and Shaggydog had not stopped howling for near a fortnight. Jon had almost been sick when he learned that the bones of the man and the wolf were being contained stored together, as the mutilation the Frey’s had done to the corpse was so extreme that no one had been able to differentiate between what was Robb and what was Greywind.

In the end they had been buried that way too. Their statues granted them some more dignity than that though. Greywind has been easy to recreate from the likeness of both Ghost and Shaggydog, and he stood in stone now, protecting Robb even now, in death. Robb, Jon thought, looked too old by half. He had never known Robb as a king, or even as a Lord, only ever as a boy, Jon’s brother and friend. So while he could see some of the likeness between the stone king before him and his half brother, he found it strange to think that it would be _this_ Robb, _King Robb_ that the world would remembered. Only he and Rickon would be left to remember Robb the boy, Robb the brother.

Jon had wanted to have other statues made as well, for Bran and Arya. But Rickon remained adamant that Bran was not dead, and they couldn’t devote a grave in a crypt for a living boy. When Jon had expressed his wishes to have a crypt for Arya, it had been the other Northern Lords who had opposed him.

“The girl they wed to the Bastard of Bolton was a fake, that we know now, but the real Arya Stark may yet live. There have been no confirmations of her death, and until the day we know for sure what became of her, it would not be right to give her a place among the dead. People may think you have given up hope if you do that.” Lady Alys has told him. Jon had not had the heart to tell her that he had already given up hope. All the same, Aryas statue remained unmade, and her grave empty.

Now that Jon had made the journey to the crypts, he felt all the tiredness that had eluded him as he tried to sleep. He sat down at King Robb’s feet and looked down the hall at how far he would have to walk to make it back to his bed. _Is walking that far truly worth It? Is the climb up those stairs truly worth the comfort of a feather bed?_ In his sleepy state, Jon judged the answer to be no.

The stone of the statues was smooth, as was the plinth they were placed upon. Jon found that it made an adequate substitute for a bed, especially given all the times he’d slept upon the floor on his journey back to the wall, all those lifetimes ago. He curled up beneath Greywind and shut his eyes. Sleep took him immediately.

This time, as he ran through the crypts, it was not his father and brother that he heard, but rather Val. All the things she had said when she spoke of Lyanna. He tried to drown them out but her words were deafening. He called out as loudly as he could.

“Father!” He yelled, finally Val’s voice quieted, and to his horror so did everything else. He could practically _feel_ the eyes watching him, the ears of the dead listening to his childish cries. “Father,” he called again, “Robb! Where are you? Father where are you?”

“Not here,” a voice whispered behind him, “Not for you.”

“Father!” He called again, running now to escape the voice. “Father! Robb! Uncle Benjen, are you here?” No answer came. He could think of nothing else to do. Again and again Jon called out to anyone who might be listening, to all the family he had lost, all the names he had called countless times before in this same dream over the years. He called for his father, for Robb, Benjen, even Arya, if she was dead as he thought. But answer came there none.

After what felt like an eternity of calling, he stopped, sighing hard to catch his breath. When the silence became to loud for him again, he opened his mouth, ready to start his search again, but the words caught in his throat. _Robb and father are at peace,_ Val’S words were in his head again, _they are gone and they cannot help me. Benjen and Arya may not even be down here, so they cannot help me either._ The thought made tears well in his eyes, though whether that was for his family’s sake or his own. Who could help him in here? Who’s name was left for him to call? Brans? Sansas?

It came to him then, that there was only one person he had never sought out in the crypts before, one person who he never thought to find here amongst the corpses of house Stark. The person he’d so often wished for in his times of need. The most important person in his life, the one he’d never even known.

He took in a shaky breath, and called out one last name. “Mother!”

For a split second nothing happened, and Jon felt rather ridiculous to have thought, even for a moment, that his mother would be here. Then he heard it. A distant crack, followed by the sound of stones scraping. When he turned around, he saw a girl stood behind him.

“Arya?” At first he thought maybe his sister had heard his call, and simply been slow to respond. But when he stepped closer he knew this want Arya. This girl was too old.

“No,” she said, hesitantly. She seemed confused, as if she had just woken up. Jon took a moment to take in her appearance, and she seemed to be doing the same to him. The girl did look a lot like Arya. She had the same dark hair, grey eyes and long face that Jon too shared with his half sister and this mystery girl. Jon judged her to be a year or so younger than he was, which even given the time he’d been away from his sister, was further proof that this wasn’t Arya, who could be no older than eleven if she yet lived. The girl before him wore a pale nightgown which, he noticed had a dark red stain in the middle around her stomach, _Blood,_ he realised.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, the alarm clear in his voice.

The girl looked down at her stomach, eyes wide, “yes.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

Jon was rather taken aback by her bluntness. “I was only trying to help.”

“You can’t.”

“Do you think perhaps you could give me a more insightful answer?” Jon felt his frustration rising.

“Such as?” The girl inquired.

“Such as what happened to you, exactly?” Jon asked, trying not to sound too irritated. She was injured, and Jon could see the blood stain slowly spreading across the front of her gown. “Or mayhaps your name, at the least.”

“My name is Lyanna,” in his heart, Jon must have known the answer, but hearing the words aloud was like a punch to the gut. _Why her?_ He asked himself, _why is she here?_ “And….” She continued, “and, I- I think I’m dying.”

“You aren’t dying,” it wasn’t a lie, she wasn’t dying. She was already dead. “You’ll be alright. Here, maybe you should sit down.”

“Why are we in the crypts?” She asked, her eyes wild with fear and confusion. It was as if something had awoken in her suddenly, where moments ago she had practically been sleep talking, now she seemed fully aware of her surroundings. “Who are you? Why am I in the crypts? I was in Dorne. I was _supposed_ to wait in _Dorne!_ He’s coming back, he promised! He’s coming back for me!”

“Who’s coming back?” Jon reached out an arm, trying to calm her. But she wrenched her arm away and stumbled backwards. “Lyanna who’s coming back for you? Robert? One of your brothers?”

“Robert?” She spat the word out like it was a curse. “No! Of course not him, I was trying to get away from him! And my brothers, Bran, Brandon is dead!” She began to weep then. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault! He didn’t understand, I never wanted them to follow me, to fight for me. To die for me. Ned went to war! Shy, quiet Ned, he led a rebellion, because of me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jon tried to reassure her, it pained him to see someone who reminded him so much of Arya in such distress. But in truth Jon knew little and less of Lyanna and the extent of her role in the rebellion. “You were kidnapped, that’s not your fault.”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “Kidnapped? No, no I wasn’t _kidnapped,_ I ran away. I hid. Aerys was mad, I slighted him when I competed that day. The king would have had my head, but _he protected me_. Why can’t anyone _see_ that?” Jon was entirely lost as to what the woman was saying now. “Is that what they all think? Do they really think he would do something like that? And that _I_ could be so easily abducted? No. I go nowhere against my own will, Bran should have known that at least, if I hadn’t wanted to go I would have fought them.”

“I’m confused,” Jon cut in, “ _who_ protected you?”

“Rhaegar,” Lyanna looked at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s coming back. I told Ned, I _told_ him. He promised he’d come back.” She looked around again, the surprise clear on her face. “Are we in the crypts? Why am I here? I’m supposed to wait in Dorne.”

“You already said that,” he told her, quietly.

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she looked abashed, then she looked at him again, properly this time, as if it was her first time really seeing _him._ “Are you a Stark? Do you live here?”

“Yes, to both.”

“Tell me then,” she stepped closer, her eyes had that wild look again as she lowered her voice. “Is he safe? Ned promised me, he promised me he’d keep him safe.”

Jon felt his stomach sinking, he did not want to say the words, because he didn’t want to hear the answer, but he couldn’t help the words from pouring out of his mouth. “Is who safe?”

“The babe. My babe,” Lyanna whispered, she stepped closer again and clutched Jon by the arms. He was glad she had else he feared he might fall. “We thought it would be a girl, you see. He was _so sure._ It wouldn’t matter then, because no one would care about a girl. But he was wrong. Only about that though.”

“Your boy…”

“Aye,” Lyanna smiled, it was the most beautiful and comforting sight Jon had ever seen. _She has kind eyes…._ “Do you know him? Is he safe? I can’t say what name Eddard would have given him, but he had the Stark colourings, grey eyes, dark hair, and he was born in 283. I’m- I’m not sure how old he’ll be now.”

“Seven and ten,” Jon choked out. “I’m seven and ten.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this was just a couple of little ideas I had that I decided to write down. The first was the bit about what Val would probably think about Rhaegar and Lyanna given the whole stealing thing. The second was of Jon figuring out who his parents were from his dreams about the crypts in some way.  
> I hope you’ve enjoyed this, and to anyone waiting for What Honour Demands, I’m working on the next chapter right now!  
> Pls let me know what you think :)


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